Fool's Gold
by fantaysytrash
Summary: [Post-Grand Prix Final. Victor/Yuri, one-sided Victor/Yuuri.] Yuuri always thought Yuri's infatuation with Victor was one-sided; he finds out it's not in the worst way.


Thanks for choosing this story! Please feel free to leave any comment, advice or critique, as well as any random thoughts whatsoever; reviews and kudos are always welcomed.

All of my written works are also available on my AO3 account, so come meet me there if you want, or invite anyone who might be interested.

Lots of love,

F.

* * *

Yuuri was still slightly panting by the time the last skater – none other than his namesake – finished his piece and ended the choreography in a beautiful pose. Yuri's breath was labored, but an uncharacteristic smile graced his features, making him look radiant in his white costume.

The younger boy's performance had been nearly perfect – not to mention extremely complicated – and there was no telling whether Yuuri's would be enough to beat him.

Time stretched on as the whole world waited for the final results... and sure enough, Yuri Plisetsky snatched the first spot right under Yuuri's nose.

He wasn't angry, exactly – not the way Yuri would have been if their places had been reversed – but he still couldn't keep his disappointment from showing just the tiniest bit on his face.

He turned to look at Victor, only to be met with a vacant space. Frowning, he looked around trying to locate him but, before he could make more than two steps, he was swiftly swallowed up by a mass of reporters, asking him about his skating journey and his future plans.

He replied at the best of his abilities, despite not having quite managed public speaking yet, and snaked away at the first opportunity.

Victor was nowhere to be found. Granted, there were thousands of people now swarming the place, making so much noise Yuuri doubted Victor would be able to hear his phone over the chaos, if he were to try that.

He decided to head quickly to the skaters' private bathrooms in the unlikely chance he was there, the only place he could really think of at the top of his head.

When he got there, only one stall was occupied but before he could knock on it a somewhat familiar voice cried out from behind it, making Yuuri jump back against the sinks on the opposite wall.

He was about to turn away and leave – for that clearly wasn't Victor's voice, though he could have sworn he'd heard it before – when it spoke again, this time softer but clearer.

"Vitya," it whispered.

_No_, Yuuri corrected himself, _it was definitely a moan._

He stopped completely. For a moment he thought he'd misheard, but then...

"Vitya," the voice said again, louder. And there was no mistaking neither the tone nor its owner.

"Yura." Now, _that_ was Victor's voice – _his_ Victor, Yuuri remarked pathetically.

He willed his feet to move, to get as far away from there as possible, but he found himself frozen in place, standing right outside the bathroom stall where the man he loved was clearly fucking someone else.

The following sounds were unmistakably sexual, and he couldn't stop his mind from picturing Victor pinning Yuri – the wrong Yuri – to the door, bodies pressed together as his mouth descended on the younger's neck.

Another thought suddenly occurred to Yuuri: Yuri was barely sixteen and Victor was twelve years his senior. He pretended for a minute that _that_ was the thing that unsettled him, rather than how he had genuinely believed Victor had fallen for him in the months they'd spent together in Japan.

Did Victor lead him on or was he just utterly delusional?

A zip being opened and the rustle of clothes brought him back to the current situation. And, just when he thought it couldn't get worse, from his spot leaning against the sink, he saw a pair of agile legs crouching to the floor and _no, this was _not_ happening_. But sure enough there was a sucking noise followed by Yuri's breath itching and the thumping of his head as it bumped against the door.

"Vitya, please."

"Relax, kitten."

Yuuri was thankful he didn't have a visual range of their flustered faces, although the moans were just as telling. The most embarrassing thing, though, was the tightness that Yuuri suddenly felt between his legs. He forced himself _not_ to act on it, to keep at least part of his dignity intact; he would _not _jerk off to Victor and Yuri.

"Fuck me," Yuri breathed just a few paces away. Yuuri could almost imagine him being right beside him, whispering in _his_ ear, and he couldn't decide whether he liked it or was merely unsettled by it.

"No," Victor replied hoarsely. "You deserve better than a dirty bathroom stall. I'll book us the nicest hotel in town and I'll show you all the things that I promised you."

"You're shit at keeping promises."

Victor sighed heavily. "I think I apologized profusely for the last time. I already explained my motivations. Yuuri showed potential, I needed a moment away from Russia, but I never meant to hurt you."

"Mmh..."

"_Yuratchka_."

"Speaking of that pig, shouldn't you be with him?" Yuri spat out the words with the usual venom he reserved for this particular topic.

"I'm technically still his coach, so, yes, I probably should." He didn't make any attempt to move. "Now, do you really want to keep talking about him while I'm literally on my knees for you?" His remark was followed by what Yuuri could only assume was a very enthusiastic blowjob.

"Vitya!"

"Be quiet, kitten, anyone could enter at any moment," chastised Victor.

"I wish the piggy was here," Yuri remarked crudely. Yuuri hid his face between his hands, wishing to leave but not strong enough to do it – and not just mentally. It seemed that his legs had started to ache terribly due to the strain he'd put on them during his skating performance and he could almost feel his muscles flaming.

"For the last time, Yura, I'm not in love with him," Victor exhaled with a clipped tone.

"Does _he_ know that? With all your lovey-dovey attitude, you could have fooled him."

"I'm a flirty type of person, you know that," Victor promptly countered. "It doesn't mean anything. I'm not attracted to him."

There was a pause, during which Yuuri hoped with all his might they would not hear the pitiful sob that had treacherously escaped him at Victor's words.

"You know, you surprised me," Victor suddenly changed the subject. "Despite everything, I really thought Yuuri would win that gold medal. But your extra training paid off. I'm proud of you."

The words were quiet, Yuri's moan was not. One of his hands bumped against the door, and Yuuri could see his fingers curling around the top of it, before releasing it and slumping over it.

At some point their words became slurred and incoherent and Yuuri would have been grateful not to hear their love confession if that hadn't merely increased the sensual tone of their hushed and breathy voices.

"Vitya?" Yuri said after a while.

"Yes?"

"Come back to Russia."

Yuuri heart skipped a beat. They _had_ talked about the possibility of training together until the end of the Grand Prix, and now that he hadn't even won the promised gold medal, he had no excuse for convincing Victor to stay.

"Yura..."

"Not for a week or once every few months. Come back to Russia and stay there. With Yakov and Lilia, with Mila and Georgi. _With me_."

Victor stayed silent only for a moment.

"Okay," he agreed. "I'll come back to Russia. To stay with you."

.

Later, when they met just inside the main entrance of the arena, Victor offered no explanation about his absence.

"Hey, Yuuri," he simply greeted with a smile. Yuuri took in his appearance, his tousled hair and his slightly rumpled clothes, and tried not to stare at what was clearly a hickey just over his collarbone.

"Victor," he said. _Vitya_, his treacherous mind thought.

"I just wanted to congratulate you for your silver, it was a great competition!" The way he said it – like nothing was wrong or different from all the other times he'd ever spoken to Yuuri, like their training was still the main priority – angered him even more.

"Thanks."

Victor frowned. "Don't be disappointed, next year you'll try for gold again." There was a pause, then finally: "I was thinking about going out for a bit with Yurio, to celebrate his victory. Is that alright with you?"

Victor's words still echoed in Yuuri's memory.

_Kitten._

_I'm proud of you._

_I'm a flirty type of person. It doesn't mean anything._

_I'll come back to Russia._

_Yuratchka._

"Yuuri?"

"Sure," he replied. "Give him my congratulations as well, he was very good. I look forward to meeting him again in the next competition."

If Victor noticed his attitude, he didn't comment on it. He stood a bit awkwardly before giving him a quick hug.

"We'll see each other soon," he said.

As he watched Victor and Yuri entering a cab together, Yuuri knew that was a lie. He would get back to Japan the next day and, after some stalling and far-fetched excuse, Victor would announce his decision of becoming a coach alongside Yakov in his hometown, Saint Petersburg.

After some formalities and reminiscences of their old days as coach and trainee, Victor and Yuuri would part ways most decisively, the memory of those moments they spent in more intimacy than any friends should too faint to feel real.


End file.
